


good things die all the time

by vanimiel



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: M/M, but it's obvious so you know lmao whatever, the other character is supposed to be ambiguous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 16:58:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanimiel/pseuds/vanimiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kiss me like you mean goodbye, said the spider to the fly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	good things die all the time

There’s no room for intimacy on the battlefield.

There’s no room to get up close and personal; to feel the terror on their breath and see the anxiety in their eyes; to grace their ears with the last words they’ll ever hear, menacing and murmured; to press their body against his in a manner that is meant to imitate love and comfort but instead makes horror seep to their bones.

No. There’s no room for intimacy on the battlefield.

Fortunately, he is not on the battlefield. 

He knows this, and grins. Oh, he grins.

He’s got him bound; how he got there isn’t important, only that he is. His wrists, his ankles. He’s gagged, too, but not for long— a gloved thumb caresses his cheek under the fabric.

“You remember what this venom does, sim?” he purrs, grin softening but not becoming any less frightening. Though, he must give his victim credit; fear is not the primary emotion in his eyes. It’s there, but it’s hidden behind anger, hate, frustration. He tries to struggle, but the venom is making quick work. There’s not much time left, and the Spider chuckles.

“Of course you do.” Breath hot against his ear, and he can nearly feel the other’s stomach lurch in disgust. Just as he likes.

The arm supporting his victim shifts, pressing him closer, repulsing him further. The hand that was to his face tears the gag from his teeth,

but his mouth is not free for long.

It’s forced, rough, and everything the Spider wishes for it to be. He feigns affection, caressing the other’s cheek and pouring passion into it— because what he’s doing, he’s passionate about it. He is.

Their lips mold poorly, the victim too shaky and repulsed and, daresay, fearful to do much else. But it does not matter, because he is not dead. 

Not yet.

The Spider grins, as wide as he can while his mouth is preoccupied, and tightens his grip on the other, pressing him closer, and he begins to squirm. 

His mouth is no longer his own. The Spider has intruded, tongue pushing past his lips and teeth and normal, human tongue and continuing, continuing into his throat— filling it up, wall to wall, crevice to crevice.

And it’s not long before he realizes he cannot breathe. He tries to struggle, he does; but the arm previously holding him reaches up to grasp his face, deepening it, disgustingly emulating romance.

It is not long before the body goes limp.

Was it the venom, or the sweet suffocation? The Spider doesn’t know, and in the end, doesn’t care. His muscle slithers back in, dropping the body as it settles in his throat, making a face as if he smelled something rancid.

“Cigars,” he mutters. “Disgusting.”


End file.
